Forged in Iron
by Ripplestitchskein
Summary: For CS AU Week: Canon Divergence. Killian uses a new set of skills gifted to him by the Author's AU to fashion a present….of sorts.


Killian never could have imagined a day where he would actually be grateful for something done at the Crocodile's hand. Just a few short weeks ago the idea that one of the only positive things in his life could be directly attributed to one of that bastard's schemes would have made him scoff and severely question his own sanity. Now though, as Killian swung his hammer down to strike the rod of red, angry iron, he counted himself lucky that he at least had this.

It had taken him a few weeks, bogged down in grief and still mourning as he was, to realize that he could still _remember._ To realize that his alternate identity in that farce of a storybook was more than just words on a page and a ridiculous false persona, it came with an entirely new set of knowledge and skills, an entirely new passion that seemed to have lingered even if that particular tale was through.

It hadn't even registered at first. He found himself admiring the Prince's sword one day during a visit to the loft, and he just _knew_ the details behind its construction. Every fold of metal, the exact types of hammers needed to draw the blade out, the exact color temperature it would turn with each round of hardening and quenching. He just had them, memories of his apprenticeship and his years of laboring at the anvil, years of constructing beautiful swords he was ashamed that he didn't even know how to wield, at least in that life. The knowledge just seemed to be there, jumbled among his real memories, just waiting for him to use it.

Blacksmithing turned out to be a much needed distraction. There was only so much research they could do. They knew what the problem with Emma was, they just didn't know how to actually _fix_ it, and no book or ancient scroll was going to have the answer. Only a wizard a realm away could begin to help them and getting Emma there against her will was unlikely. Belle insisted there was some ancient tome that held the key, but Killian Jones had spent enough time learning about the Dark One to recognize how futile it was.

His Crocodile had spent hundreds of years with these same books and scrolls, and if the answer was within them he would have bloody well found it and used it to his advantage already. But the Queen and King remained hopeful, Belle remained helpful, and Henry remained determined as ever to believe.

Killian could only hope and wait.

The Prince had been more than willing to assist Killian in gathering the necessary supplies. David had actually been surprised by the request, but he also understood, he knew exactly what it was like to sift through differing sets of memories, to have differing skills and life experiences all contained in one head.

He was an old hand at it, but for Killian it was a rather new, and faintly unpleasant, sensation. Killian was, however, determined to make the best of it, and some brand new part of him missed the sound of metal ringing out and the warmth from heated coals on his chest and face.

It was surprisingly easy to gather what he needed. David had yammered on and on about why, something to do with that infernal box helping to give way to the resurgence of an interest in "old-fashioned" artisan craftsmanship, and as a result it was no problem at all to acquire the materials. And he certainly had enough money to do so, his stash of gold and various gems converted very well into the currency of this realm, and his expenses had always been fairly minimal.

Marco was also thrilled to help, his eyes crinkling at the corners when Killian explained that he just needed a bit of space, something similar to the place Marco called his own, and did he know of anywhere in town? And very soon after their talk, Killian was shown to his very own slightly run down open shed space, a place near Marco's shop that was just big enough to suit his purposes. It was enclosed enough to protect his things, but also open to allow smoke to vent and air to circulate. It was very much like the lean-to shed he'd had in the alternate life and he found that slightly comforting.

Killian had felt something thick in his throat when the older man eagerly showed him the space and then presented him with a custom wooden tool rack to hang on the back wall for his plethora of brand new tongs and hammers. He had swallowed, thanking him with a stiff clap on the back, at the same time trying to push away the tightness that had formed in his chest at the man's thoughtfulness.

David and Henry had gone with him to the hardware store, list in hand of materials needed to build the forge, materials obtained from the plans Belle had printed off for him at the library. It was a nice juxtaposition of the old realm and this new realm, a forge made of the concrete and earth that he was familiar with, but incorporating some of this realm's advantages as well.

Henry had helped to the hold the boards as they built the temporary frame. David showed him how to use some sort of insanely loud machine to mix the concrete in a large orange bucket. And he had actually smiled as they worked, an all too rare occurrence these days, as he hooked up the air pipe to the electric blower he would use for the bellows, David teased him the entire time about his use of modern conveniences.

Leroy had been both willing and able to help acquire raw materials for him, the coke and charcoal for fuel, the rods of iron and steel with which to work. Leroy had been very interested in what Killian planned to do in the little shed if he wasn't to make the swords and daggers of their land, but Killian didn't know yet, only that there was something he should be making. Something that crawled under his skin and itched to be let out.

Tink helped him take care of the largest obstacle of all. His current brace was ill-suited for the task, and the one he'd possessed in the alternate reality was gone with the book, but Tink was ready with a solution. She had always been clever, with her little inventions and gadgets, and it was no time at all before she presented him with an adapter of sorts that could both hold the tongs and adjust them as necessary, and allowed him a way to turn the rods as he struck them that was both natural and easy.

The first time he donned the heavy protective apron (a silly concession to Mary-Margaret who insisted he wear it even though his shirtsleeves had done well enough before) he had stood in front of the heating coals unsure of what he planned to do. He wished desperately that Emma was there to tell him, to give him some idea, some inspiration.

He wished that she was there to tease him about the silly green apron, comment on him sweating over the flames, he could almost hear her voice in his ear, "Going to fashion yourself a cutlass Captain Blacksmith?"

Each day he came to the shed after he had exhausted himself with research and theories, and when he began to work it was with anger in his blood. He always seemed to be filled with rage and despair these days, unable to be calmed, even by the sea, for that reminded him of her. That was how he always started: with the rage.

He grabbed a red hot rod from flickering flames with the tongs, the metal clanging against the anvil as he dropped it down, and his shoulder throbbed with exertion as he raised and brought down the hammer over and over again.

With each thwack of hammer the reddish orange metal fanned out and began to take shape before him. The air was filled with the twang, twang, twang of steel on iron, or the crisp ring of steel on steel and each time he swung Killian could feel his anger start to cool, and his head begin to clear. When he worked in the shed no frustration or anger crept up his spine, no self-loathing or hatred filled his chest, it was just the mindless swing of the hammer, the cry of metal ringing out, and the hiss of steam as he plunged red hot iron into water.

Henry stopped by sometimes, usually after school, his backpack falling into the dirt, lanky limbs sprawled back in the single metal folding chair Ruby had brought over one day with some excuse they were cleaning out a closet and thought he could use it. Henry never asked him what he was making, he figured out part of it himself over time. There was a rapidly growing stack of thin, tapered, triangulated disks of varying sizes that appeared on the fold out table, like little rounded arrowheads. Henry never pressed him to talk or share, the boy just spoke idly about his day, updated Killian on the progress of his own research, shared his own ideas, and would occasionally ask if he could plunge a recently forged and completed piece into the water because he liked the hiss of steam and the slight vibration of the metal.

Killian always obliged him.

Dave stopped by too. David appreciated the craftsmanship behind Killian's work, and he asked lots of questions, fascinated with this new aspect of his sort-of friend's life. He jokingly expressed his jealousy that Killian was gifted with something that could actually be useful in this realm, the Prince's own talents for sheep raising were not exactly feasible in a downtown loft apartment. Like Henry, David never mentioned or asked about the seemingly endless flat or slightly curved pieces of metal Killian prepared, he simply admired their form and the detail, and kept up a constant stream of idle chatter.

There were some days when Killian couldn't get to his shop at all, as the current crisis would demand all his attention. Those were the days he needed it the most, because lately the current crisis always seemed to involve Emma. It was a special kind of hell to see her, to be close enough to touch her but know that he couldn't, that it was dangerous to even try. Each harsh, taunting word she spoke to him, to Henry, to her parents would rip his soul to shreds and it was all he could do to weld _himself_ back together at the end of the day much less those rods of metal. Those days were the worst. Those days he was half tempted to fire up the forge in the dead of night, neighbors be damned.

But he couldn't do that to Marco, or the rest of the people in that area of town. They had enough to deal with, what with the near constant disruptions to their lives.

On the day he caught Henry crying in the back room of Granny's, pressed against the wall with his backpack at his feet and his face in his hands, Killian went through three rods of steel. With each clang of metal on metal the beginnings of a plan start to form.

On the day he overheard Mary Margaret cooing at her infant son, describing how wonderful his sister was and how brave and strong she could be, all past tense words and false cheerfulness, Killian went to the forge and hammered over the flames until sweat poured down his chest and ran in rivers from his forehead and Marco called in reinforcements. He almost missed David standing just behind him a water bottle in hand and concern etched on his face, so intent was he on one more swing of the hammer, on one more note of metal in the air. That night he uses a seashell to request a favor from a sea goddess, swearing oaths he can only hope to keep.

On the day Emma finally comes to see him he upends the little table that holds the fruits of his labors, pieces of metal falling into the dirt like iron raindrops.

"Is this a present for me?" comes the hiss in his ear, her teeth grazing the shell.

Even through the smoke and ash and fire he can still smell her flowery sweetness, filling his nose and making him _remember._ She takes the lobe between her teeth, tugging lightly, a hand running down his neck. His eyes fall closed and Killian swallows.

"Or is _this_ my present?" She has turned him away from the forge, her hand slipping down his chest, still slick with sweat, her fingers slicing the apron away until it falls forgotten onto the packed dirt of the floor. "All wrapped up just for me." She murmurs, her breath is hot above his mouth and he can feel her lips brush with each whispered word. Her hand rests on his belt, gently pulling on the buckle with long delicate fingers.

"Please, Swan," he can barely get the words out, her mouth on his neck, tongue licking, her other hand slipping up to his hair and tugging _hard_. He feels the sharp desire low in his belly, the jolt of heat between his legs, but it's wrong and he hates himself for it.

"Oh do beg," she murmurs, mouthing at his jaw and she has pushed him back, leaning him back against the table, every inch of her pressed against him, he can feel her through her clothes, still so soft and warm despite the hard edge of her voice and the coldness in her eyes. "I do love to hear you beg, _Captain_."

Killian swallows, his eyes squeezing even tighter as her hands roam his chest, his neck, his thighs and his fingernails dig into his palm, his other arm hanging helpless and limp at his side.

"You're no fun today," Emma presses a kiss to the side of his mouth, her nails digging into his face for a brief moment, drawing thin pinpricks of blood, and finally she backs away.

"Another time perhaps," Killian says opening his eyes, but she is gone and he finds himself staring at the flickering flames of the forge instead.

On the last day, when the final piece of his plan is in place he swings his hammer from dawn to dusk. They come together slowly and methodically, piece after intricate piece, and under his hands and by the sweat of his brow they begin to take shape. He finishes just as the sun has started to set and David comes to help him move them, huge and heavy as they are.

Hanging them is a different challenge altogether, and this time Regina helps, her magic weaving the heavy chains from the roof that will hold them in place into the thick iron bars at the back. They get them settled just as the dark creeps over the town, a bright light shining against them and throwing them into shadow against the clock face of the tower, and onto the street below.

A pair of beautiful, deadly, metal wings.

Killian shrugs on his long jacket, his hook snapped back into place, hand in his pocket for a moment, and he waits.

"What's this then?" her voice comes from the shadows and he tries not to start, keeping himself solidly under control.

"A present love, like you said," he smiles at her. "Do you like it?"

She hovers just above him in the air, sliding and slithering around the enormous wings weightless in the sky. She reaches a lily white fingertip out to press against the steel of one intricate feather and he sees the well of blood at the tip. She slowly draws it into her mouth and when she brings it back out again it has healed over, pristine once more.

"You shouldn't have," she smiles, a cold and feral thing, all teeth, and she slowly descends. "So why did you?" Her voice has gone hard, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

"I missed you," and there is nothing but truth in his words, nothing but sincerity in his eyes as they lock with hers, stepping closer. "And I wanted to get your attention." He smirks. "Did it work, love?"

"Oh you have my attention alright," she has moved into his space, her nail scraping down the side of his neck, her hips aligning with his, now at the perfect height thanks to her tall heels. "My full, and….prompt attention was it?" She kisses the point of his chin her eyes never leaving his.

"Aye," he whispers, his hand moving between them to hover just above her hip. "Something like that."

"And what will you do with all this….personal attention, Captain Hook?" Her lips trail down his neck, pressing a kiss to the open vee of his shirt.

"This." Killian's moves are fluid and sure, grabbing her hand with his own, squid ink smearing across her palm. Her eyes are wide with something similar to terror but closer to rage and Killian wastes no time reaching into the pocket of his coat and pulling out the small clear bean concealed there.

"What are you doing," she hisses and tries to move but his grip is sure and the squid ink has frozen her firmly in place.

Killian smiles softly at her dropping the bean to the floor between them.

"I'm preforming a dashing rescue my love, what does it look like?" He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes to block out the hatred and rage in hers, his arms going around her as he lets the portal pull them in.

To Camelot.


End file.
